


The Sorcerer and Her Son

by susiephalange



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, F/M, Female pronouns, Female!Reader - Freeform, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Male-Female Friendship, Nicknames, POV Kylo Ren, POV reader, Please Don't Kill Me, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sewing, Tailoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-10-27 05:05:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10802340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiephalange/pseuds/susiephalange
Summary: In the small village on the edge of the forest, the tailor's daughter cannot stand by and watch her mother's ailing health lead her her death. Taking it upon herself to ask of the help of the resident witch, and her son, she must follow the contract to heal her mother. But, all magic, comes at a price, and sometimes, that price is knowing a little too much about things that are unsaid...





	The Sorcerer and Her Son

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. So I intended to write this for May 4 because I'm a huge fricking geek and I live for _Star Wars_. But. I totally forgot the date. And now it's May 6 where I am, and I feel like the worst disappointment to _Star Wars_ than Anakin Skywalker himself. 
> 
> Anyways. I was in the mood for witches and magic and I love _Star Wars_ and AUs. So. Enjoy, or whatever.
> 
> Also, I was hooked on listening to this [8Tracks playlist](https://8tracks.com/poplarrocks/a-girl-with-a-broom) while writing this. Might help with reading.

 

In the forest, there is a place where the songbirds do not fly, where the grass does not grow. In that place, by the edge of the scraggly cliff lays a house, where not a soul in the township spoke of. Perhaps it was because they loved the witch, Lady Leia Organa, or required her herbal remedies through the harsh more than her persecution, but during the purge of the sorcerers throughout the land, she stayed in her house. Also, not a soul from the town spoke of her son, the young Ben, or by his midnight name, Kylo. Everyone knew that the solstice Han Solo went missing, his son came to fruit.

It was also known that the same solstice, you came to fruit also. But unlike the great blood that ran through the witch's son, you were but the tailor's daughter and whilst other women were out in the world, swaying the likes of men and marrying off for money, you were stitching garments for them, staying in the store.

Your stitches were neat, and your daydreams full of things that you weren't allowed to think of. While the women were out wooing the gentlemen, your mind would wander, or your eyes would, anyway, and when the town square outside the shop window would be bare, Lady Leia and her son would wander within the township's boundaries. They wore garb unlike what you sewed; fantastical capes, long skirts embroidered with symbols, a token of dried edelweiss pinned to their blouse. He wore ripped pants, feet bare to feel the cobbled stones underfoot, jacket loose around his waist.

But then you'd blink, or worse, turn your head to answer your father the tailor, and then the family of witches would be gone.

But this winter, you felt something within you change. Perhaps it was that whenever the two strangers to the town entered, you could see them (even when not anyone else could), or that the current winter, your mother's cough grew stronger, her bones weaker, her form never leaving the confines of the bed. Your father refused to treat her, saying – never in earshot of your mother – of nature's way of life was to let the dying die. But you had grown from a child who had heard of the merits of the healing witchcraft of Lady Leia. Your heart only knew the love for your parents, and while your father denied you to seek medicine, the heart governs the mind. And thus, that Sunday afternoon, you stole away after chapel to the woods.

Rey's mother had been a disciple of the witch before her demise, and using her instructions, you followed the path. But unlike the stories you had heard, that the home of the witch lay on barren land, that it was a cursed place where the wildlife forsook it, it was quite the opposite. For there was a meadow of lavender surrounding the thatched-roofed house of Lady Leia, the cliff holding a waterfall that sent an untold number of rainbows upon the surrounding forest.

A courage you never knew carried your feet – one step, two steps, three – closer to the iron and wood door, closer to the closure and the wellbeing of your mother. But as your hand went to rap the bear knocker, the door was whipped open. He stood taller than you'd imagine, a smear of coloured mess across his cheek, the shirt on his chest gaping through the unbuttoned middle.

"You must be here for my mother," he commented, chewing on his lip, hair falling into his eyes. His voice was deeper than you'd imagined it to be – it was the voice of a man full grown, not unlike the boy you had grown up watching from the window. "Do you have a name, or shall I tell her there's a little girl here for her?"

You feel a line form between your brows as you frown. "My name is _______," you correct him softly. "My mother is dying; this  _little girl_  will do all to save her."

The witch's son Kylo makes no remark to that, and nodding, leaves you standing at the door as he retreats within the house upon the sweet-smelling meadow. You sway where you stand, thinking of what will come of you once you return to home above the shop, of your mother, of the reprimand your father would issue to you. Before too long, the form of Lady Leia appears, her hair in braids wrapped around her head like a cornucopia, a beautiful smile upon her face like an angel of peace.

"Please excuse my son for not inviting you in, we are amidst cleansing for the new season," She smelt faintly of sage, and blueberries, unseasonably so. But she was of magic, and seasons did not listen to weavers of spells. “Your mother is ill?”

You nod. “For as long as I can remember, but she is ailing, she never rises from the bed.” You cannot meet Lady Leia’s warm gaze as you utter, “I am here against my father’s wishes. He would have his wife die rather than healed, but he unswayed by the merits of magic.”

The presence of Kylo Ren sets his shadow long, across your own, and he speaks, “If your father knows not of your presence here, you have no way to pay? Or do they pay wages to women now?” His voice is cutting, deep, and if you were taller, you would strike his face. But you cannot reach his height, and instead, ball your fingers into a fist. “I take your silence for pennilessness.”

Leia narrows her eyes at her son, “We are not witches of darkness, my son,” her voice is sharp, a warning. “Allow the dressmaker’s daughter a moment to collect her thoughts before suggesting her soul for collection.”

You shivered, and unbidden, your fingers uncoil, and settle upon the ever-fluttering beat beneath your chest. “I am skilled,” you exclaim. “I’m not all useless, I can mend, I can weave materials. Please, consider my work a payment, I will do all for my mother.” You feel moisture taint your dry eyes.

“I shall accept that as payment.” The fair Lady Leia nods, and using a moderate sprig of wood from her hip pocket, waves it. A surge of power rushed through you, streamed through the air around the triad gathered. If you were naive to the ways of magic, which, you most certainly were, you would hazard a guess that it was set. “The deal is fixed. Now, come with me, and tell me of her symptoms, child,” pocketing the wand, she beckons for you to follow. 

* * *

 

Not three hours later, you are walking the way to the town, holding a slip of parchment close to your chest. You are not alone this journey, as you were earlier – leading you to the hamlet is Kylo Ren, his hands deep in his pockets. You don’t seem to be following him, or he you; it is almost like he is like one of those ghosts you had heard of from an old wives’ tale, travelling endlessly. Upon his back, he carries a basket for gathering firewood, but it is empty of wood, and instead, ever so often, added to with different herbs and roots from the side of the path.

You are both silent, until you reach the edge of town, standing where the stone meets the grass. You turn to him, the paper tight in your hot hands. “I’m not a stranger to your ways, Kylo Ren,” you speak softly, as so not to wake the spirits that linger upon the edge of the forest, as so not to attract the attention of those living nearby in the small town. “I see you and your mother in the square often. I know that I said what I did for payment, but –,” you hold your breath, wondering if you are crossing a line here, “I can mend your pants, the ones shredded here,” you motion to your legs. “But only if you wish.” You add hastily.

He stands there, silent and swaying like the trees he is surrounded by, until he nods. “I should wish, then.” He nods once, and gestures. “Go home, little girl.”

You dip your head once, and lower yourself to curtsey as you were taught as a child. “Until we meet again, Master Ren.” 

* * *

 

The last stitch in the row is completed, and so is the day, with the sun setting beyond the hills. Your father had business in the citadel down the way, leaving you to take care of the store front for the day, to care for the materials he had, the customers who came. Master Dameron and his good friend Finn came for their coats, and the elderly spinster Maz required measurements for repairs to her billowing pants unlike the skirts the other women wore. But with the sun set, and your mother sleeping in her sheets, you can take the box from under your bed, wherein you keep the parchment of Lady Leia’s and Kylo’s measurements, and material to sew a new bodice and skirts for a winter dress, and for her son, a shirt with sleeves, and enough pockets to keep the magical agents he requires on hand.

In the next room of the little house, you hear your mother turn in her sleep, her breath catching in her throat, her rasping cough rattling through the walls. Threaded needle in your hand, you lower it, and peer through the open door to see her sickly pale face peeking through the layers of blankets.

A wave of determination flows through you, and at that, you work through the night, measuring, cutting, stitching through the wee witching hours until you had created the midnight blue dress. The candles were burning low, their tallow stalks melting across the bench through low light, enough to tempt your drooping eyes to fall to sleep. But you had yet to embroider the hem with the stitching you wished, and it weren’t to be a full eight nights until you were able to sew for your debt to the witch in the woods. So, you lit the next candle before the other wasted away to none, and continued onwards with your work. 

* * *

 

At the same time, on the same night, in the forest, Kylo Ren sat awake. He also sat upon his desk, the materials scattered so he could peer through the window at the pages of his book with the aid of moonlight. He was yet to learn how to cast light, and the light of the dear goddess Selene was all he could use. So, he read, studying the runes and words of old, trying to decipher his problems.

“My son, it is past the time to be reviewing the book,” He heard his mother’s voice float through the air, attached to her form in the doorway. At times like this, he could picture his father, the poor carpenter who had fallen for that voice, had fallen to her bed. Though twenty years had passed, and visits to his father were few, and far between, her voice had not aged, and could picture if he thought hard enough, the beautiful union of the town outcast, and the peasant labourer. “What ails your mind?”

Kylo shut the book. “The girl, the one who came to us.” He states, and sliding from the desk, turned, facing the silvery light of the moon, the glow casting upon his face. “When I walked her to the town, she said she had seen us often in the town, but whenever we walked in the walls, we wore edelweiss, and warded ourselves from sight.”

His mother approached him, a hand placed softly upon his shoulder. “That is quite a question you have, and I’m afraid I do not have the answer.” Her hand squeezed his shoulder, and feeling her hand leave, he reached, and held it there. “Now, fret no more for this night time, it is high time your mind stilled on the matters beyond us.”

Kylo agreed. The riddle should plague him another day. 

* * *

 

Not a week later, you found yourself leaving the chapel early, the brown paper package in your arms. Though the season was advancing, your warm clothes were thick upon your skin, but they did nothing to prepare you for the summertime warmth that emanated from the hearth of the forest where the sorcerer and her son lived. The fields of lavender and their flowering garden had grown taller, and in your hands, the package of the dress for Lady Leia, and the pocketed shirt for Kylo.

Like the time previous, the door opened before your hand brought the knocker down, to see the familiar face of Kylo Ren. His face had grown stubble, growing beneath his chin, down his neck like a vine of darkness across his pale skin, across his upper lip. It was the growing stubble of a young man, nothing like the impressive beards the men in the township sported from years of production. But it looked a little excellent upon his face, as scanty as it was, and you felt a blush course your cheeks before words graced your lips.

“I expected you to take longer,” he raises a brow, inspecting the package in your arms. Your gift-wrapping skills were subpar, the package lumpy and oblong, but to his eyes, you guessed it appeared fantastical. When had he last been given a present? “May I?”

Not trusting your lips to produce the correct words, your head bobs.

At once, the paper is torn, and the shirt spills out. You chose to use the good material for his shirt, a soft silk your father had traded seasons ago, and not used. It was the colour of a deep forest green, and turning it in his hands, you saw his eyes take it in.

“Your stitches are so small,” his brow raised quizzically. You weren’t sure, but in that moment, you would have thought of him in awe. “My mother is not here now,” he raises his gaze from your creation, tucking the dress in the packet under his arm. “I have yet to finish the potion for you…if you should like to come inside? I will have it completed in an hour.”

You nod. “I should like to come inside, but…I hardly know you, Master Ren,” you feel another heat cross your face. “It’s unheard of for polite women to enter the abodes of men,” your voice is low. You didn’t want to sound like you were spouting off from an invisible rule book, but it was true. All the girls who had been born the same year as you had been married off already, you are the last spinster for your age.

“I –,”

“Please don’t think me rude.”

Kylo Ren nods. “I was born under the light of Neptune, and taught the ways of justice for the sexes.” He states, face grave, but the words, they sound unlike anything you’ve heard come from him, nor any man before. “I pity those who expect women to be labourers in the home, and expect more of society than to create children,” he scorns, turning inside. “If you enter this house, you are safe, and not just from the rules of civilisation.”

You follow him inside.

It is unlike any home you had ever set your sight on; the hearth houses a cooking pot, the fire low as something stews away. Shelves are spiralled over the walls, trinkets and books and tokens strewn without a proper place everywhere like they had crawled upon there, to make it their home. Boots and socks are strewn by the front door without lack of a box. There is a scholars’ desk, and opposite, a mantle with a large unframed mirror. Your reflection stares back at you, her hair wild from the walk through the woods, eyes glowing. You were not sure, but the lady you saw before you did not move as you did, hesitating before copying your movement by a fraction of a second.

“I brought my sewing kit,” you turn to Kylo, who has taken a seat at the desk. His brown eyes follow you as you seat yourself before the hearth, soaking in the warmth of the blue flames. “If you are to take an hour or so to finish, I should think of busying myself with your trousers that require repairing.”

Kylo Ren nods. “That sounds reasonable.” From his side, he produces a wooden stick alike the one his mother bore, and with a wave, from the floor by the back of the little house, the trousers danced their way to your lap. “You puzzle me, little girl. You see invisible people, and are not frightened by witchcraft like the people in your town.”

“My name is ________,” you iterate. You gather the pants in your arms, and do not meet his eyes, frustrated that he kept on calling you that moniker, while claiming to support equality of the sexes. “Wait…you said invisible – am I a witch too?” you ask him, opening your kit slowly, threading your needle. “Maybe that is why my father keeps me too close to side.”

You miss the way Kylo Ren’s eyes trail across your deft hands, spanning through the hole in the pants you are mending, the way his lips part at your words, the way his hair falls across his face. But when he glances away, you take him in, looking at his large hands, and the scar that is healing across his face, the little marks that litter his fingers that are cluttered with rings. You see the way his freckles are littered over his skin, the way that his feet tap an unknown beat as he works the last of the potion, his lips ghosting over the spell words as he enchants.

Yet, the pair of you miss the prying eyes at the window outside, the ghostly green-grey gaze. 

* * *

 

The evening passes, and once you have mended his pants, which, he remarks to look better than new, and you have a cork-screwed glass vial in your fingers, which you remark to smell of the Valerian – which, he explained that it had been the main ingredient. Once again, the pair of you walk in silence through the forest toward the town. Kylo wears the shirt you had crafted, and with every step from the thatched-rooved cottage, your winter cloak pulled evermore tighter around your shoulders to halt the chills. Yet, Kylo still walked barefoot through the sleet.

The last time, you had hesitated there, swaying before you had gone on your way. You’d curtseyed, and sweetly smiled, but after spending the afternoon with Kylo Ren’s presence, you feel bold. Instead, with the cork-screwed glass vial clutched tight in your fingers, you reach on tip-toes to kiss his cheek. Although, you would have kissed it, rather he was too tall, and you had planted a kiss upon the jaw of his.

It was his turn to blush, the rouge showing through his growing fuzz. “I –,”

You nod, not quite able to meet his eyes after your forward act. “Thank you very much, for all you have done to aid me. I am sure of my mother’s return to health, and your pants not to be tattered there for quite some time,” your words come out all at once, at a rush where they tumble down and out into the world you stand in. “Until we meet again, Master Ren.”

He agrees, his hand moving to you, stopping, and then, staying by his side. “Until then, little girl.” 

* * *

 

But when you arrive to your home, to the place above the tiny tailor’s storefront, your father appears at the uppermost step leading the chambers. In the evening light, his green-grey eyes stared through your being. His hair was seasonably frosty, haggard and wild as if he had run to the wilds of the king’s common. It was then it dawned upon you, standing in the cold hall of the store. His eyes. The way he was looking upon you now, his lip raised in disgust, distrust – he had been the peering pair of eyes at Lady Leia’s cottage.

“My daughter, _my blood_ ,” his voice quivered in anger. “Consorting with _witches_.”

The vial you had tucked into your sleeve feels warm, almost throbbing there. As if the vial knew of its fate if it were to be found. “Father, please, I –,”

His hands made a fist, and the fist made way to the wall beside him. “Silence! I saw you with the witch in the clearing, you acted familiar to the man! He has you enthralled with a dark magic, stolen your innocence from you!” He accused. “I tolerated living here, where the touch of witchcraft lingered upon the fringe, but to abide it in my own home? No!”

You stood to your full height. “You would allow your wife to pass away, when there can be a cure?” You feel tears sting upon the edges of your eyes. Never in your life had you felt so daring, standing up to the man who had dictated your life for as long as you could remember, but here you were. “I will not have my mother die because of your – your silly judgement!”

Your father’s brow furrowed. “Insolent child, you will be punished for your sins with the witches.”

At that, the blood ran cold in your veins. “You cannot – you did not tell the Bounty Hunters of the Lady Leia, and her son, oh, father, how the town shall suffer without her advanced ways!” you cry out, and if you were not standing beside the firm wall, you should have fallen to the ground. “I cannot see how you be so blind to see the need for the wise in our woods.”

“I am not blind.” He gritted, a fury imploding within his words, “Your mother spoke well of witches, too, once,” He spat, coming down one step, another, two more. “So I gave her one of those precious herbs, something no one should have pass their lips, and she has not had the will to fight me anymore. I asked her to give me a son, and she gave me a pathetic daughter, who thinks!”

There’s a crash, and turning, you see in time to watch as the wooden dressmaker model topples, and falls. But there is no agent to cause it – unless there are invisible men about. “Whatever is so wrong about using my mind, and speaking it?” you wonder, aghast. “I’m a human, as are you. I’m not only your offspring, I’m – I’m my mother’s! I’m my own person, I’m doing the _right thing_.”

There’s another crash, a display of fabrics falling to the ground, the bolts of material rolling on the not yet cleaned floor. Unlike when the women of the village who screamed in the night from the curtains swaying in the night breeze, whooshing of sheets that flew in the breeze as if men were under them, haunting them with pale presences. For all you knew, a spirit attached to Kylo Ren, or the fair Lady Leia herself, throwing their weight around. But you were not scared.

For you could see in the pale moonlight that flooded through the windows, the shadow of footsteps.

“Mother killer,” you hiss.

He shakes his head, but before words can escape his mouth, there is another shadow, but it’s corporeal. A phantom stands taller than he, shaped like a woman, her hair long, eyes wide and youthful, mouth twisted like some hungry ghosts would be. Her nebulous image was starved, her hands raised above him, but before you can speak, her talons are in his chest. There is blood upon his lips, and slumping, he stumbles down the stairs, falling to his knees.

The shadow of footsteps beside you shimmer, and standing there, Kylo Ren is agape, watching this display. From his expression, you are sure that this is not his work – a perpetrator does not shiver in the presence of their own doing. From what you knew of him, he was not this advanced of a spellcaster, a witch. Your father’s form falls, his mouth ajar, eyes to their white’s, face to the floor. Dead. Your eyes went to the apparition. Her hands were reddened, her mouth closed, eyes, watching. Waiting.

“State your name, wraith,” Kylo Ren declared, taking a step as if to shield you from her.

You frown. “I know her…” you whisper. Though her eyes were often closed, and her hair never this messy, you knew her. You knew her soul, the form she was – no, not quite. But you knew this spirit. You knew this ghost – because she was, “Mother.”

Slowly, from your sleeve, you produce the vial, watching her as you uncork the Valerian-smelling liquid. Your eyes stray, slightly, for you see Kylo Ren watching, in an almost rapture of what you are experimenting with the patricidal phantom before the both of you.

“Careful,” he mumbles.

At this, you nod, and raising your arm to the ghost of your mother, you offer her the potion. “If you are truly a wraith, please, drink this, and come to the land of the living.” You plead. “I wasn’t born to do any of this, I’m just a tailor’s daughter, Mother, please don’t die, please come back,” your lip wobbles, and sniffing, you watch as she waivers, floating toward your arm.  “I don’t want to be alone.”

There’s movement, but before you can register it, there’s a shout, and it all turns dark.

* * *

 When you wake, you are not inside the store. Your head is heavy, eyelids heavier still, and you feel like you could use a few more minutes with the world waiting for you to stay asleep. But it’s then when you remember what had caused you to black out, and at once, you start, sitting up at once.

“Easy,” the baritone hum of Kylo’s voice is in your ear, his hands warm, steadying you.

When your sight focuses, you come to see several things. Your home, the store – it has gone. You are laying on bare earth, your back supported by Kylo’s hands, upon a bedrock of pebbles. The sun has risen, and the clouds are not obliterating the rays from sharing its light. You have not moved since you had fallen, but it’s then you realise that there is no roof above your head. Before you, is Kylo Ren. He is still wearing the shirt you had made him, but it is dirtied, perhaps charred on the sleeves. His eyes are trained on you, hair falling to his gaze.

Behind him, the Lady Leia Organa stands, regal and wise as she ever is, wearing a travelling cloak of bright white, her hair wrapped in braids like rolls the baker sells, topped with cinnamon. She is talking, speaking to another woman. She has (h/c) hair, long, and unkempt, wild like the wind. Her (s/c) skin glows in the morning air, her arms bare, but appear to hold traces of a rouge tinge. She wears a dress, a cloak, a full skirt, all the shades of the earth, feet bare, toes in the ground. She looks like a deity, an ethereal being beyond the laws of appearance, her chest out, her lips drawn to a smile, crinkles beside her eyes to show the years had been kind to her mirth.

The women’s gaze lands to you, and turning, the pair of them approach you.

“I have acquired answers to my queries,” Leia’s voice is breathy, excited. “________, dear child, you have cured your mother from the perils of mortal death. Her name is Ceres, the goddess of the earth we walk upon.”

The woman who had been sickly in her bed for all your life looks upon you, and smiles ever so sweetly. How could she be a goddess, if she had been very nearly killed? “Magic is in your veins, my dearest child,” she utters. “I fell for a human man, like many of my sisters had, and I created life in my womb.” You look to Kylo, whose hand was attached to your own. “But he was twisted by the ways of men, and hated me for what I was in my soul. The poison of hemlock was to commit deicide, but luckily you were there, to save me.”

You cannot remember how to breathe. “I thought Gods were to be merciful,” you whisper. “He was not a man I liked, and you were a woman I loved, and the both of you were in a game of murder,” you feel your breath hitch. “Deicide, mariticide, what is supreme is no killing at all! I’m here, I’m alive because of a m-,” you place a fist before you mouth.

Your mother bends, her skirt falling into the earth, absorbing the ground. “There is never a mistake for life. It comes. It goes. Man chooses, man chooses not. There is never a mistake.”

You shake your head, but Leia interrupts. “Why not allow the poor child to reflect on her heritage and the events as of late?”

Ceres nods, and rising, left you be.

“_______?” Kylo’s voice is low, quiet in your ear. “Little girl? Are you alright?”

You shake your head. “I need time.”

* * *

Time does pass. Naturally, it does, for that is what time does best. Your mother traverses from the land of the living, to that of the Gods. Your father is buried where the sun shines warm on his grave. You hope that beneath the soil, he cannot stand the warmth and love you still give him, though his final day he confessed to slowly killing his wife, barely abiding his daughter. Your punishment for him is your undying love, because it is one thing to kill, and another to kill with kindness.

The tailor’s store never was rebuilt. It is a hole between the storefronts, like a gap between a baby’s teeth. The only reminder of it is the tree that has taken, from where the hearth had been, twisting upward like a man reaching upward, seeking the sunlight. In the right light, the tree reminds you of your father. But not often.

You are paired with Kylo Ren, and he with you. The women of the town had talked, but the ageing carpenter who fixed their homes put an end to that, and often kept an eye out for the pair of you when the gracious Lady Leia could not. She had been exalted by the covens across the land, and very unlike the King, he had put an end to the merciless witch hunts, allowing all those who were swathed by the enfolds of magic to live their lives in the sunshine.

You were married.

On the certificate officiated by the witch Luke, Leia’s twin, you were married to a man named Ben, Ben Solo. Though still by the ways he had been taught, with his passion for magic, and all the midnight wanderings, he clung to creative thought and the emotions, to the mundane blood from his father, to the ways of the earth. His midnight name had fallen from his shoulders like a cloak’s hood at the sunrise, and you were coupled, married therefore in the town surrounded by a thousand blooming carnations the colour of doves, forevermore.

It had taken but a year for you to make peace upon your bloodline, how you were barely human, and Ben Solo, nee Kylo Ren loved you no less for it.

So here you lived, not too far into the forest, where a villa is nestled between the mountainside and the fields filled of asphodel, where another room was made for a coming member of your family. The villa was small, and you practised needle-craft, and your husband, witchcraft, and everything you needed was there. And, it was good.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any requests, find me on Tumblr at @susiephalange, or [@phalangewrites](https://phalangewrites.tumblr.com/request_conditions) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


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